X1924 DISTANT PLANET
by Lieutenant Shroom
Summary: Pikmin fighting eachother for a reason they haven't known for years. A crew of Hocotatian space fighters, consigned to death. When a crew of Hocotate space fighters crashes on the planet, both species must work with each other to avert extinction.


X1294/D I S T A N T \ P L A N E T

A/N- My lack of ownage is the butter on the sandwich of Pikmin!

-VALLEY OF THE LOST- 5:02 AM-

The sun rose in the jungle-valley, shrouding the lush wetlands with pink light.

The tent of hastily lashed-together leaf matter was opened as a small, red entity walked out of it. Taking in the morning sun, the small red creature issued a few music note-like sounds as the flower open on top of its head shook, placated and turned to face the sun. Calm, observant eyes with faint yellow irises around jet-black pupils rolled in their sockets as the small plant-person walked back into the tent. When it walked out a few minutes later, it was clad in a small set of leather shorts and a brown, layered vest. Strapped to its side was a short splinter of metal, crudely shaped and lashed together to a fine piece of wood, masterfully carved into a hilt for the blade. On the other side of its waist was a coiled, molluscite shell that looked much like a snail's single bone. A small ribbon of blue flesh hung from the corner of the horn, the only testament to its former owner. The red pikmin took the horn from its waist, heaving it up to its small, almost invisible lips, and blew with all its might.

A large, resounding sound issued from the business end of the horn, filling the valley with sublime noise. Trees vibrated as huge birds flew off into the air as a red mist oozed from the ground, and a large black pole, bent in the middle, twitched in the earth it was buried in, acting on nerve impulses. There was an incredible scurrying from the tents as many more red plant-creatures scurried to get themselves dressed for battle. The early risers appeared first, merely two minutes later, aching with hunger and shouldering their weapons, a mix of halberds, chakrams, balls and chains, axes, swords of all sizes and shapes, and the occasional ranged weapon, all crudely made, and armour, a mix of coarse, hempen cuirasses, tanned leather vests and pants, animal-skin loincloths and a few bits of chainmail. As minutes passed, many more pikmin appeared out of the hundreds of tents, until about three-thousand two hundred plant warriors stood blinking in the sunlight. A rustling from an extravagant tent of red leaf caused the reds to snap to attention, dividing into ten companies in a strangely orderly fashion for their barbaric appearance. Nine Pikmin walked out into the light in front of all ten companies, each getting awed gazes as they all stood in front of a group, with the horn-blower in front of the fourth. These were the Captains of the Rodanjos war-tribe, chosen from their villages due to extreme might, skill or just darn size. The one in front of the second company drew a carrot-like object from his tarnished metal battle-armour, feeding it to the odd hog-like creature he was sitting on. The pig chewed and snorted, its ebony tusks working as it chewed in a large mouth. The final pikmin tent rustled as another appeared out of it, though this was not a latecomer- no, this was the man of the Arm, the great Captain-Commander of Rodanjos itself- Twigfoot, the Master of the Guard. The mature pikmin was sporting a long, green beard of excess growth, like some of the other pikmin had grown but much, much longer, but the most striking bit of the plant-warrior was his left arm.

Formed from a twig roughly shaped like a hand, the great fighter's nerves were stretched along the circumference of it, and those in turn were covered by a thick blue glaze- although opaque from a distance, up close you could see the inner workings of the mighty warrior's impromptu arm, which was tougher than steel. The captain wore a horned helmet of gnarled wood, forming a stereotypical Viking hat, and a large halberd was strapped to his leather-cloaked back. Facing his fellow warriors, he opened his small lips and spoke out to the warriors assembled before him.

"My comrades, the hour of your liberation is at hand!"

Uproarious shouts issued from the groups of red pikmin, some chanting, some drawing their weapons and waving them in the air. They quietened down as the old man drew breath, and listened eagerly as he spoke.

"Too long have we suffered under the bigotry and stupidity of the Yellow Pikmin of the Castillo tribe! Do they not rule this valley? Do they not hold their great fortress, a genius of engineering, the mighty Fort Garganta? In the Ancient Tongue, "garganta" was the word we used for throat, and so today we will treat this stronghold of Castillo as a windpipe- ripe for the cutting. They are indeed accomplished spearmen, but we have strength and courage that the yellows do not. Though many of us will die today, the yellows shall fall before us. When the sun reaches the Sixth Position, we shall begin our assault! We shall take the head of Windleaf Skutha!"

The warriors assembled before him cheered and shouted, drawing blades and shouting praise to Twigfoot. The horn-blowing Pikmin drew his instrument and issued a mighty blast, measured to create a simple tune. The notes reached across the entire valley, the arrangement giving a nasty air of seclusion to those who were not of the red tribe. The notes echoed through jungle and swamp, all set in the deep valley, before ending in front of a great stone wall covered with moss and lichen. Tepid swamp water swirled lazily around the flagstones shattered from the east wall, and many vines were hung from the three towers of the massive castle. Armoured Pikmin clad in leather and chainmail, all with yellow skin and ornate spears, patrolled the moist jungle ground, watching for intruders. When they heard the massive sound of the horn, they dropped their spears, clutched their heads, and trembled. The true might of Rodanjos was coming to Fort Garganta, and nothing could stop them.

STELLAR OBJECT DESIGNATION X1924/DISTANTPLANET ORBIT

"We're going down! We're going down! Stabilise thrusters systems and return fire!"

The cockpit was aflame with rampant horror as a large missile impacted on the front of the cruiser-class battleship. The front of the ship shattered and sprayed fuel all over the edge of the jagged hole left in the hull, and the whole ship shuddered as airlock shields were deployed and the air pressure stabilised. Yellow laser fire struck the side of the ship and burned a triangular mark into it, causing a hexagonal plated forcefield to well up around the sides. Captain Stephno of the Hocotatian Airspace Battlefleet sighed and removed his cap from his forehead and mopped his brow. Lasers and missiles ricocheted off other ships in the great battlefield, smashing apart bulwarks in terrific explosions as their nuclear hearts ignited and burned out. Distress signals flared up on the scanners but were quickly replaced with screaming radio static as their vox-casters were incinerated as well as their machines. They were fighting a losing battle. The planet below was an archipelago of small islands, nary fourteen or so kilometres in diameter floating above pristine blue seas, and was a positively peaceful backdrop against the horrifying battle in space. Already his men were transmitting to loved ones, final messages that would unlock when their suits were damaged severely, meaning that they were either fatally wounded or already dead. The enemy was buffeting them in places they couldn't bounce back- being Hocotate themselves they knew all the tactics by the books. Why did they rebel against Governor Tacitus? It was an injustice. All this bloodshed just because of their hatred of one leader? Why did they kill so many?

Stephno shook his head. They would never find out now. They were in a deathtrap, one that was running out of oxygen, men and mass to fight back. Yet they couldn't escape, for outside lay certain death at the harsh vacuum of space. The ship shook again as they lost the rear right thruster. Firing their weapons at full blast, the old captain allowed himself a small sliver of reprieve as an enemy vessel, wandering into their range like a lamb onto a road, crumbled as it was wracked by countless artillery-grade explosions, the crew spiralling out into the void in pieces.

"Sir! We've lost _Tacitus' Pride LXI_! We're going down!"

The old general looked away from the screen and saw the private in the corner of the room. He had retired to the corner in a fit of fear several minutes ago, no doubt soiling himself as his life fell apart. That thought gave him one final push. He would not go down as Captain Roy Acheron Stephno of the _Phlegyas' Vengeance_, coward of the highest degree.

"Prepare ramming fields! Take down the battleship on the right!"

Shouts of protest rang on about the cockpit. One man actively fell down with a seizure and died of a brain haemorrhage moments afterwards at the thought of ramming. Ramming was the final act of desperation, the equivalent of fighting of enemies with a kitchen knife in the toilet when they have guns. Still, yellow pentagonal forcefields appeared on what was left of the bow, and thrusters roared as the ship prepared to launch itself at full power towards the destroyer to the right of the bow. A man behind him in the residual command deck shouted at him in anger.

"Stephno you old fool! You've doomed us all! We're dead men! We could have made tactical withdrawals, return to Hocotate… see our wives and children again…" The man's voice petered out at Stephno's glowering stare, envy of the Hocotate Battlefleet. Stephno drew his face into a powerful, commanding one.

"We were dead men when we entered this war, Lear! We knew the risks, and we pledged in the name of Kuje that we would fight to the end! Do you wish to renounce that holy oath?"

The stars behind the general were turning into comets. Ramming speed had been achieved. With a great thud, the captain was knocked down by a powerful g-force as he was forced into his seat. The shocked enemy battleship, unable to react, was only able to scream before the battered ship made impact. The world whirred, as the cockpit was blown around in the highest atmosphere of the Distant Planet. There was a blinding flash, and Stephno knew no more.

VALLEY OF THE LOST- 6:41 AM-

A small, caterpillar-like creature oozed around on the swampy floor of the Valley of the Lost. Securing its mandibles round the stem of some plant, it only vaguely heard a bellowing sound before it was crushed apart under the hooves of a stomping, pig-like creature that plowed through it without a second thought, a red-skinned pikmin astride it. Behind him came many more animal riders, some on rescued Bulbmin and others on more boars, and some on more extravagant mounts altogether. In their hands were pikes and shields, and the frontal pikmin raised a horn to his lips and bellowed a tune that shook the leaves from the trees above them. Behind his company of riders were legions of other Reds, all in furs and wielding battleaxes as they rushed through the valley in raging battle positions. Twigfoot himself was raging down the middle, his halberd drawn and in an attacking position. Now was the time.

FORT GARGANTA- 6:43 AM-

Yellows readied their weapons and drew their bows and spears, stringing their weapons up ready to intercept. They looked towards the swampy water of the Valley of the Lost, and saw the reds coming. They bellowed war-cries, cavalry even coming into visual focus on the zooming devices of the Inventors. A young, lone yellow, clad in mere leather and wielding a spear that was embalmed in scriptures ran up stone circular steps along the length of a tower, wind whistling through empty windows. Reaching the top, the yellow panted as he caught his breath. His name was Smallroot, Aide to the Warmaster, and as he walked to the wooden door at the top of the stairs he put on his most professional look (that ended up looking nothing of the sort) and opened it.

On the battlement of the centre tower was a middle-aged pikmin, in yellow skin, clad in black metal armour and a long ornate cape that billowed behind him. A similarly ornate spear, wood glowing ebony and blade cut cruelly sharp with a red scarf tied to it hung by his side, as he looked upon the valley with the magnifiers of the Inventor beside him, his all-concealing hooded cloak stained with oil. The min turned around, having sensed Smallroot's presence, and looked at him expectantly. The min's face was young, but seemed to have a great oldness behind it that spoke of too much war. His stalk was blooming in a yellow flower, tied back to aid his agility, and his eye was of deepest blue, silently tortured but otherwise calm and inspiring. The other was a pitted scar, with a tortured eye socket falling limp around the place where it had been gouged out with a sharp weapon, with a long cut directly below it where said weapon was removed. This was Windleaf Skutha, Warmaster of Garganta. Smallroot found himself spluttering, as he did when his master looked at him in the eyes most times, and began to speak.

"The reds are advancing… sir… there are ten battle companies with only average losses… and a bearded min with a discoloured arm is leading the charge headlong!"

Skutha whirled round, drawing his spear close to him. "What colour? This is of the upmost importance, Smallroot Farrengrass. Tell me the colour!"

Disturbed at being called his full name, Smallroot squeaked out a "blue…!" Skutha snapped to the approaching red army. He could see the water being kicked up by the cavalry now. "Thank you for your time, Smallroot. I pray you survive today." The small yellow squeaked and ran back into the tower. His eye socket began to itch. Nearby, he knew Twigfoot's faux arm was probably twitching expectantly. Drawing his spear, he leapt off the battlement high into the air and landed above the portcullis and drawbridge that allowed entrance. He commanded the bridge to be raised and the moat to be filled again. As water flowed by the pit in front of the pillar, he saw a blinding light to the left of him. Great meteors were approaching the planet from the sky, burning up in the lower atmosphere. Skutha looked at the meteors for a few seconds. They had come again. The Whistlers, or the Enslavers as they were known to many. As they passed behind the sharp incline of the valley, Skutha turned back to the field. He could see the reds now, tiny pinpricks of red light. Drawing up his arms, he bellowed across the valley in a commanding voice.

"Twigfoot! We meet again for the last time! Show me your strength! End our rivalry in a crimson sea!" The Rodanjos general heard his shout. He pondered, and then he smiled.

?- UNMAPPED QUADRANT OF STELLAR OBJECT DESIGNATION X1924

Stephno moaned and fluttered his eyes. His whole body ached and he lay there for a while. He tried to open his mouth, and met a plastic ventilator tightly clenched around his mouth and nose. He shook himself and opened his eyes.

The cockpit was a mess. It had shattered clean open, green glass panels everywhere and flickering computer screens displaying an image in red glowing writing. The cockpit had crashed into the planet with the rear side down, leading to an elevation of about twenty degrees upwards, and the back was deep within the earth, soil and rocks spilling through the broken door. Putting his hands on the floor, Stephno willed himself up and miraculously rose. The whole place was a mess. Seats and control panels were everywhere, gel shock absorption pads in crumpled walls leaking out cilategene solution. In what used to be the nose of the ship, a flickering ramming shield buzzed in and out of existence, fractures cracking the field apart. Limping over to a computer screen that had been punctured in several places, his ventilator helmet's visor activated. He moaned at what it said.

"Warning- atmosphere compromised. Atmosphere contains 21% oxygen. Breathing fatal. Total life support gas- 17 days p/person alive." He had seventeen days before he died. How tortuous. He would have liked to have died in the crash, but no- he had to wait for oxygen to run out. Lovely. He tapped in a few commands to the keypad and entered the scanner menu. A radar program opened up and a disc drive released a cable. Plugging it into his own visor, it expanded and a radar blinked into existence. After a few dummy scans, the system started up and Stephno was overjoyed to see green blips. Hocotatians. The poor blighters must have thought he was dead. Climbing out of the shattered cockpit, he fell a few feet onto the soft, marshy ground and looked around. The alien world was very green- forests covered every direction. The sky was an orange-red colour and the sun of the system- designated stellar object 192-SOL – was just rising. It was much stranger here with the filtering of the sky- it was strangely reddy-orange, but very acceptable in intensity.

He had fought over that star. The Hocotate New Order Facilitate had wanted to crack it and obtain the solar power inside it. He had been challenged by old Captain Olimar, a man whom Stephno held respect in the highest degree of. He had visited the planet twice, once by accident, when his ship crashed, and the second time to look for treasure to get galaxy-wide Hocotate Freight Shipping out of debt. This was the planet of the Pikmin, strange creatures in many colours. Olimar had been saved by these creatures, which helped him return home after he crashed and look for treasure when necessary. His defiance against the leader of HNOF had caused this war, the war that everyone had hoped for after the villains killed all the people of Carrimoor on Hocotate. Stephno walked along the marshy ground, thinking about his past and the war, when he walked through a small patch of flowers on the ground. Ambling through them without a care, he did not notice when two of them followed him. In a shifting tumult of earth, a great green beast hauled its bulk out of the earth and opened its fanged jaws. The flytrap-like beast unleashed several tentacle that tripped the captain as he walked, causing him to swear. Looking behind him, he looked into the cavernous jowls of a huge creature, pallid tongue dripping slime, and it roared so loudly birds took off from the trees. The beast closed its mouth and moved in for the kill.


End file.
